The Bishop’s Wife (Linda Wallheim Mystery, #1)(50)

“I didn’t agree with him,” said Kurt mildly.

“You told him that we all needed repentance.”

“We do,” said Kurt.

“And then you told me to apologize for hitting him.”

“Yeah, that was stupid, wasn’t it?” said Kurt. He looked a bit sheepish at that. “But mostly, I was just trying to get rid of him. Aren’t you glad about that part?”

Yes, I was. I took a breath and let go of the idea that Kurt had in any way agreed with Alex Helm. “Fine,” I said.

Kurt moved to the door and glanced out the peephole. I assumed he must have seen Alex Helm in the distance, retreating to his son’s house. “What a horrible man. I actually feel sorry for Jared. Can you imagine having a father like that?”

“Can you imagine having a father-in-law like that?” I said. “Poor Carrie. And poor Kelly. What will she think of her possibilities in the future with a man like that whispering in her ear every moment of her life?”

Kurt turned away from the door and looked straight at me. I felt as if he could see to my soul. They say that bishops can do that. “About Kelly Helm. Linda, be careful, please. She isn’t yours. If you become too attached, you will only end up hurting yourself.”

“And what about Kelly? I’m more worried about her hurts than my own. She’s the child. I’m a grown woman.”

Kurt stared at me for a long moment, and then he gave up trying to talk me out of my feelings for Kelly Helm. “Well, no wonder their marriage had so many problems,” he said. “Knowing Alex Helm is here certainly won’t help Carrie want to come back.”

But the real question was why Carrie had ever let herself marry into such a family in the first place. Her parents, it seemed, were right about everything.

“By blood and by right.” Those were the words that Carrie had used in her letter to her parents to describe Jared’s claim to his daughter. And his promise that she would not be remembered, except as a crazy woman—I hoped desperately that wasn’t true, and that it was Jared’s own craziness that would eventually come out, now that his father had arrived to fan it into flames.





CHAPTER 18




Still shaken by my conversation with Alex Helm, I went over to the Torstensen house at about ten to check on Anna before we were due at the mortuary for the dressing of the body. I knocked on the door and waited for an answer. It took several minutes and another knock before Anna Torstensen came to the door.

I was shocked by her appearance. To my eyes, she looked like she was the one who had died. Her skin seemed thin and papery over the bones of her skull, which stood out clearly in the yellow artificial light. Every movement seemed slow and deliberate and distant, as if she were a puppet of herself, and there was an absence in her eyes.

“I thought we could drive down to the mortuary together,” I said. She didn’t look like she could drive herself.

“Thank you,” said Anna. “I just—I think I need a few more minutes to prepare myself.”

“Have you had anything to eat today?” I asked.

She shook her head again.

“Let me make you some toast and then we’ll go,” I said. “All right?”

She stepped away from the door, and I led her into the kitchen. I looked through her cupboards, wishing there were some forbidden coffee to perk her up and settling for herbal tea. I warmed some bread in a pan, then spread it with butter and jam. I had to tell Anna to sit down.

“Eat this,” I said.

She took tiny bites, showing no reaction of either distaste or enjoyment. When she was finished, she stared down at the crumbs on her hand.

I brushed them off for her and handed her the herbal tea.

She took a sip and made a face, the first reaction I’d seen.

“Too hot?” I asked, taking it back and touching the mug myself. It didn’t seem too hot.

“Too sweet,” she said. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? After a long moment, she got up and poured herself a glass of tap water.

“Is there anything I can do for you now? Anything you can’t face doing?”

“Cheri Tate will be here tomorrow. She’s going to help me go through his clothes and send them to Goodwill. Or throw them out.” She said the words calmly, but afterwards, her eyes were shiny and wet.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that she has things under control.”

“She is very organized. She’s making sure the funeral luncheon will go smoothly, too.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling again how useless the words were.

“I should have been ready, you know,” she said. She was standing up, and I pulled her down to sit next to me. We were still in the kitchen, on the hard chairs, but I couldn’t see how to move into the more comfortable couch in the living room now that she had started.

“I’m sure you never really can be,” I said.

“I keep feeling like there are things we didn’t finish. All these things that still had to be done.” Her hands flexed, dropped. “I know that he was seventy-three. I had so many years with him, more than most people have. More than he had with his first wife, certainly. But it still feels incomplete. It feels like I’ve been cheated.” There were spots of red on her cheeks.